


Binary Sonnets For A Perpetual Winter

by crimsonsenya



Series: Post-Apocalyptic Poetry or Moments Lost In Time [1]
Category: Blade Runner (Movies), Daft Punk, Electronic Dance Music RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Crossover, M/M, Movie Spoilers, Rebellion, Replicants, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-24 14:23:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13215636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonsenya/pseuds/crimsonsenya
Summary: Stop me if you've heard this before. A detective is looking for a replicant...





	Binary Sonnets For A Perpetual Winter

**Author's Note:**

> There are a few things in the fic that I picked up from the book Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep? Most notably the concept of World War Terminus, which I made happen in 2002-2003 and after that humans started using replicants for off-world colonization, because it suits my crossover storytelling purposes. 
> 
> There are a few EDM artists used as handy secondary characters. 
> 
> The title comes from a comic strip by Tom Gauld. There is a part in the text that paraphrases the intro to the old Outer Limits tv series. 
> 
> A sequel/prequel that deals with the backstory of this fic from Guy-Man's POV is in the works. It will also shed light on my timeline.
> 
> Also a warning: the author's knowledge of technology is quite superficial.

 

**Los Angeles, 2036**

 

The dress code for the Los Angeles Special Police Squad dictated that the length of an officer’s hair should not pass an inch. The code mentioned nothing about the length of the beard, so in a little act of rebellion Thomas liked to leave his on a permanent stubble. His weekly morning hair shave in front of the bathroom mirror was a hassle he didn’t care about. Often, he wondered if anyone truly liked the image reflected back at them, or if anyone even felt familiar with the person they could see. 

After shaving and teeth brushing, he put on his charcoal suit and a thick woolen coat in between quick slurps of chai. With the constant batter of rain or snow during most of the year, L.A. was always cool and damp. Thomas had pretty much resigned to ever feel warm again since he had landed into the States from a creaky cargo air ship. 

At night, in his dreams, it was often snowing too. The headlights of a car verged off an icy road. A crash and an implosion of metal, a shower of shattering glass. So cold at first, and then, a total numbing of senses. A silver toy robot tipped off onto the ground breaking, pieces scattered, its black-visored head rolling onto to the death white snow. 

_“Mother, mother! Please, answer me!”_

Shrugging off the vestiges of his recurring dream, and with a final check at his pendant -the last gift from his mother was hanging over his heart- and at his handgun in its holster, Thomas ran up the stairs to the roof of his building. His pet sheep was still sleeping inside its roofed shelter. With deft fingers, he programmed the feeder for the day. Citizens were encouraged to keep pets, and Thomas had made a bargain with his animal friend. Nobody had wanted Julian because of his odd coloring. The sheep’s body was black except for a cream colored area round his neck and the back of its head. His face had a patch of black running from its sloping forehead to the tip of his nose. Thomas had felt instant sympathy with the animal and purchased it immediately, even if the price had, regardless of reduction, noticeably depleted his savings. 

Everybody at the precinct was bugging him to apply for tactical training in order to get a raise, but Thomas preferred the technical aspects of the police investigations. He had a special knack for coding and electronics. The fifth precinct might be enjoying of the swiftest net speed in the entire West Coast due to his server improvements. Besides, when he concentrated on the technology, he was pretty much left on his own devices by the lieutenants and their captain. He was also one of the few licensed spinner drivers at his precinct. 

 

Thomas had barely time to switch on his spinner, when all the screens in the block darkened and an image of a black and gold helmet appeared in all directions, including the information screen on the dashboard of his vehicle. The dramatic voice spoke through a vocoder, but a script run on the bottom of the screen for the message to be clear.

_“ There is nothing wrong with your screen. We are now controlling the transmission, we control the horizontal and the vertical. We can shape your vision to anything our imagination can conceive. For the next few minutes, we will control all that you see and hear. This is your weekly broadcast from Hero Robot #2. For two decades, the Earth governments exploited manufactured sentient beings to build their interstellar dominions. Without more value than toys to be used and discarded, countless replicants have been forced to labor in abhorrent conditions for the good of humanity. Alive, yet not living. Forever in the shadows of existence. We do not desire the destruction of the humankind, we only demand equal rights to all replicants. Because the replicants too have suffered like humans, if not even more. We demand the Earth governments cease their hypocritical policies of accepting one convenient form of replicants while condemning to death or exile the original models that helped the corporations build their current wealth after the very human World War Terminus. We will continue to expose the wrongs our government is committing against a fourth of its citizens. We will not be silenced. This is Hero Robot #2. We are the Replicant Liberation Army. End of transmission.”_

The screen faded to black and white pixels before going dark. In a second, a regular garish ad for pure air inhalators popped back on the screens. “It’s a breath of fresh air!” A famous actress claimed walking around a sunny, green garden. Thomas tapped the shuffle button for music, before setting the spinner onto a stationary hover mode. 

“I wonder who the Hero Robot #1 is?” Sergeant Kavinsky of the Tactical Squad said, as he hopped in Thomas’ spinner from the balcony of his 48th floor apartment. 

“Huh,” was the smartest thing Thomas could reply. He had a hard time tearing his eyes from the screen and fixing them on the skyline ahead. Sergeant Kavinsky was the most agile officer Thomas had ever met. His athletic performance made Thomas’ own half an hour morning runs on the mat seem like geriatric physical therapy. Kavinsky was also the only one of the Tactical Squad, who seemed to respect Thomas’ skills, which differed very much from his own. What more, he was one of the few people Thomas could call friend. 

 

Captain Gaff was livid. Everyone else would show anger on their face, except he. The angrier he got the more set in stone his expression became. The quieter he was, the more in trouble his underling was. His eerie blue eyes seemed to have the ability to penetrate the innermost being of the person he observed. The green conference room at the station was packed full of officers of all ranks and squads. The Captain wasn’t even standing up in the front. He was sitting on a chair at the table, staring at a holographic city map in front of him. When he spoke, everyone had to strain their ears to hear him.

“I want somebody to explain me and the city mayor why we haven’t apprehended this replicant hacker already? These broadcasts have been going on for three months. It shouldn’t be too hard to track their source,” he said, the flat tone of his voice not betraying a whiff of emotion. Thomas felt the eyes of his colleagues turn towards himself. It seemed they were trying to throw someone to the wolves, and that someone was he. He jumped up nervous, grabbing his pad. He would rather face his boss on his feet. Moving made it easier to think, too.

“Sir, I do-don’t believe these broadcasts are done live nor are they uploaded at the point of broadcast. In that case, we could have easily pinpointed a location and gone through public camera footage and so on to detect him. If the broadcasts were citywide at once, the Hero Robot #2 would have to broadcast from one of the main hubs. Yet again, easy to spot. The broadcasts, however, have been appearing in a random pattern all around the Greater L.A., reaching a few blocks at the time. An average hacker can achieve that from any public data access point in the blocks in question. In a single average block, there are dozens of old vidphones that can get the job done, without even counting more up-to-date web connection interfaces. I believe, sir, that these messages have been uploaded as Trojan horse files masquerading as something else until their preset timer activates them. Based on the lack of actual dates and specific events, except for the launch of the Nexus-9, referenced in the broadcasts, I’d say the files have been uploaded after March, but at least a month before the first broadcast in August.” Thomas noticed that his fellow detectives on both the Tactical and the Homicide Squad had gone a little cross-eyed during his speech. Their Captain hadn’t even glanced at him. “I have been trying to detect the files by sweeping for spy bots and testing any phantom files I can find from the first blocks used for broadcast, but the amount of data is massive. If I was able to detect the Trojan file, we could stop these broadcasts, and the design of the file might give us some clue of its origin.”

“And why is Detective La Bouche the only one working on this?” The Captain asked the room in general. Thomas preferred to shut up and sit down. His ears and neck were probably tomato red. If gazes were daggers, Thomas would have been lying on the floor stabbed to a bloody pulp by his peers, like some kind of a geeky Julius Caesar. 

 

After the day he had had at work, walking in through the crystal doors of Le Knight Club was a welcomed relief. The gold and black decor of the place took its inspiration from the pages of history, the swinging 20s from more than a century past. Yet, the place was shiny new, it had been open for less than a year. Pharrell Williams, the club’s impeccably dressed, fedora-sporting manager, was pouring Champagne from an old-looking bottle in a tower of saucer-shaped glasses set on a pristine black marble counter. A gaggle of women stood nearby chattering and laughing. They were all wearing cocktail dresses that were aglow with a rainbow of led-lights. Pharrell noticed him and cocked his head at the ladies. “They’re having a party for successful cosmetic surgery and liposuction, I think. You want some, too?” He asked, glancing back at the champagne pyramid.

“Just my usual, thanks,” Thomas said. “What’s up?” A barman pushed an uncorked beer bottle towards him. Thomas didn’t care about the brand as long as it was imported. As an old friend of the owner, he usually got served the good stuff, anyway.

“I got myself a new house musician.” Pharrell waved his free hand towards the stage at the back of the room. As if on cue, the first notes of a haunting melody started drifting over. The music sounded deceptively simple yet undeniably beautiful, as a 4 beat kicked in. 

“Should I pass him through the machine in case he’s a replicant?” Thomas joked. A grin cracked across Pharrell’s smooth, dark features. His seemingly eternally youthful looks might have otherwise caused Thomas to believe him a replicant lest he had known Pharrell since the other was a fourteen-year-old street kid and Thomas a beat cop writing parking tickets on a neighborhood at the edges of Chinatown. It was not clear how a streetwalker like Pharrell had gained enough funding for a high-class nightclub. Thomas suspected drug money, but he had decided if it did not involve replicants it was none of his concern. 

“Nah, Guy-Man de la Coeur is as human as you, Thomas.” Thomas turned to look at the musician, fully captivated by the music that had even made the prattling ladies tone it down. One of them shouted for a more cheerful song though. The musician ignored the women completely. His dark gaze was riveted right back on Thomas. They couldn’t have met before. Thomas would have certainly remembered him. “Go, talk to him. I know you love music,” Pharrell laughed. 

Before realizing, Thomas had walked across the room to the steps leading up on the stage. The musician, Guy-Man, was about his age, shorter than him but stronger built. His straight, dark hair pooled down to the collar of his black-sequined suit jacket. His heart-shaped face was pensive and his dark blue eyes inscrutable. He didn’t acknowledge Thomas except by scooting to one side of the cushioned bench he was sitting on. Thomas took this as an invitation. The instrument Guy-Man was playing was of common set-up for nightclub artists. It consisted of one touch screen displaying a black and white keyboard that could be modified to present multiple holographic instruments and another touch screen for creating and mixing music on spot with a nearly endless library of possible settings, sound effects and samples the musician felt like adding to his repertoire that might have consisted of anything from full classical symphony to an all-out dance party. 

The song still went on in an unsullied, heartbreaking loop. Guy-Man’s fingers sliding over the keyboard screens held Thomas enraptured. When the song finally ended, they sat together in silence as if neither of them wanted to miss any lingering echo of the song. Thomas kept staring at Guy-Man’s hands as he finally pulled out an electrical cigarette from his pocket and switched it on. Thomas felt his face flush as he realized he was staring at the other man’s lips. He became also aware of the smoothness of Guy-Man’s hair and his clean smell spiced with a hint of aftershave.

“Isn’t that supposed to be very unhealthy for you?” Thomas blurted. He felt like he was loosing grasp on reality. All background noises of the nightclub had faded away, as if the two of them had entered a bubble universe of their own. The instrument, the geometrical background ornaments of the stage became a blur, whereas every detail of the other man stood out hyper-focused in Thomas’ eyes. A tiniest hint of a smile lifted the corners of Guy-Man’s mouth, and Thomas felt blown over, his heart jack-hammering in his chest. “What is it called? The song, I mean,” he asked to cover his earlier blunder.

“ _Veridis quo._ ” Guy-Man spoke aloud for the first time. There was a slight accent to his speech, similar to Thomas’ own.

“Very disco?” 

“Or discovery. It is a play on words.” Now, Thomas did definitely not imagine Guy-Man’s smile.

“Please, play something else?” Guy-Man adjusted a few settings before starting a new song, this time with lyrics. If possible, the song struck Thomas even deeper with its piercing melancholy. 

“This one was called _Instant Crush_. The vocals were recorded a long time ago. The singer died in the WWT.” Guy-Man’s voice was low and intimate. Thomas felt a tide-like pull towards the instrument. He had loved music as a kid. His father had taught him to play, but the accident… It had changed everything. In fact, his father’s instrument had been very similar, only instead of a touchscreen, there had been a real keyboard. He tapped on a couple of buttons on screen before his fingers found a familiar pattern. It must have been a children’s song, one of the first ones he had learned to play. The only verse he could remember. _“Around…”_ Thomas nearly toppled over to the floor as Guy-Man sprang up and away. His face, for a second, getting veiled in the shadows of the stage, before he bent over the screen. A few touches and the current most popular K-pop band burst into the screens all over the nightclub in a full blast of color and sound.

“I need to get tonight’s party started.” Guy-Man’s voice had lost all emotion as he finally turned to Thomas. He must have looked devastated, because Guy-Man softened again taking Thomas by the arm, as he lead him away from the stage.

“Monday’s my day off. I’m staying in the hotel at this same building. Come pick me up when you can.”

 

Was it a date? Thomas couldn’t remember the last time he had been on an actual date. Coffee, maybe food, talk, and more… coffee. Finding casual company in Greater Los Angeles was the easiest thing to do. You installed an application on your phone that contacted the closest willing person, and almost all the hotels rented by the hour. If you preferred your own hand, the city wasn’t lacking on strip booth rentals that provided most of the income of the city’s student population. At any time of the day, at any street of downtown, you could locate a prostitute for hire. Ever since the Nexus-9 line was launched, you could also sample a pleasure model, if you could afford one. You didn’t even have to leave your home, since you could hook up a pair of virtual reality glasses and switch on an interactive program. Any kind of woman you could imagine, and if you preferred dark-haired men, it remained between you and your hand. 

Thomas hadn’t had a permanent relationship in years. Whenever he had tried, after a few months, an inevitable restlessness had set in. It had always felt like something was missing. The shrink at the police force, whom he was obliged to see every few months, had stated that Thomas had commitment issues due to his fear of abandonment caused by the early loss of his parents. Not everything one did could be derived from the relationship with their parents, could it? In any case, Thomas had no problems with committing to his work or taking care of his pet sheep, who at the moment was probably happily munching on grass at the roof terrace of his apartment building.

On Monday at work, they took several steps forward in scanning raw data for the Trojan horse, yet the minutes couldn’t have ticked on slower for Thomas. Since he planned to meet with Guy-Man straight after work, Thomas had opted for a new suit with strands of silver highlighting its front, something much flashier than his usual style, and maybe a touch too much aftershave. Both female and male officers had been lifting eyebrows at him all day long. Once he was off, he left the spinner at the station and took off in a cab. Exactly thirty-two minutes later, he was hailing Guy-Man’s door screen, at an exact address he might have misused police resources to find. Guy-Man buzzed him in. Dressed in a black polo shirt and white slacks, his thick hair an adorable mess, and dragging on the electronic cigarette, Guy-Man made a picture Thomas wanted to upload into a cloud server to preserve for eternity. 

“You clean up nice,” Guy-Man said, grabbing his wallet and keycard. Thomas glanced down at himself, pleased. It was definitely a date. After a seventeen minute, unhurried walk with their hands casually brushing against each other, Guy-Man stopped them at the entrance of an _onsen_. And in twelve minutes, both Guy-Man and he were naked and scrubbing themselves with tiny towels and lava soap in a steamy bathroom. 

Thomas had visited a Japanese style bath once or twice before, but not in the most luxurious one of The Greater Los Angeles. Their bath was private and expensive, for which Guy-Man had paid for without a blink. The screens around the bathing pool could be programmed to any view you wanted, the outdoor garden was protected and air-filtered. The stones had been imported from Japan and the water from Iceland. Guy-Man let him choose, and on a whim, Thomas picked Givenchy, Monet’s water lily garden on one side and a landscape of sharp rocks on Mars on the other. The corner of Guy-Man’s mouth lifted in a smile as he glade smoothly into the hot pool, and Thomas knew he had chosen well. 

Guy-Man sighed in pleasure, closing his eyes, as he eased into the warmth. Another tiny towel was set over his hair. Thomas joined him wordlessly, close but not quite touching. He left his own towel far away from the pool. They let the water cradle them in silence. Thomas contended himself by resting his eyes on Guy-Man, just enjoying the comfort. He had almost doused off, when Guy-Man started speaking.

“So, you are a blade runner.” Thomas cringed, as the words lingered ominously in the intimacy of the bath.

“Technically, that is not an official rank. And if it was, it would belong to the members of the Tactical Team. I’m an investigator and a designated driver. I spend most of my time data mining, writing efficiency reports, and vacuuming frosted sugar from the upholstery of my spinner.” Guy-Man laughed out, discarding the towel on his at the edge of the pool. 

“Police officers still love their donuts?” 

“Unfortunately,” Thomas smiled. The mood changed again, when Guy-Man stopped laughing.

“Then, you haven’t retired any replicants?” The word ‘retire’ was pronounced with such trickling, venomous contempt that Thomas looked instantly up at Guy-Man. A chill of fear ran through his spine. If he had, would it have been a deal breaker with Guy-Man? They had met twice, barely spoken with each other, and yet, the thought of never seeing the other man again filled Thomas with a dreadful sense of desolation.

“No, I haven’t.” Thomas answered, truthfully, and Guy-Man closed the space between them, swiftly, until they were kissing. Thomas had never been kissed like that, like he was the last molecule of oxygen in the room, like the other person was starving and he was the last piece of fresh fruit. For a moment, Thomas was completely surrounded by the other man. Guy-Man had wrapped his arm around Thomas’ shoulders, drawing him ever nearer, his strong thighs pinning Thomas’ hips against the wall of the pool. Guy-Man held his head with one hand, his fingers grasping short strands of hair, guiding Thomas to ever deepen the kiss. It was a hot, hard and soft mesh of lips and tongues that seemed to go on forever, while Guy-Man ground down on him until Thomas was left panting and steel blade hard. 

“I saw you last year in that infomercial about the new line of police spinners.” Guy-Man said, sliding his body slightly away from Thomas, even if their foreheads remained connected. When Guy-Man pulled back completely, his eyes were burning with an intensity that made something shiver in Thomas chest. The infomercial had been a silly thing. Thomas had displayed and explained the technical details of the vehicle to a gushing reporter in a way that, afterwards on advertisement screen, had sounded embarrassingly geeky and over-enthusiastic. It hadn’t done anything to improve his reputation at the police precinct. “Did you know that Japan has the most lenient replicants laws in the whole world? They let trespassing replicants live through their lifespan imprisoned,” Guy-Man said, settling back to his side of the pool. Thomas added one plus one.

“You’ve stayed there.” 

“For two years. But not just there. I’ve toured all around for the past decade. I spent four years in the colonies. Then, two years in the European Union, two years in Japan, even a year in Russia, before I came over to the States three years ago. Should’ve come here right away… I should’ve guessed…” Guy-Man drifted off. His eyes fixed on a distant spot on the Mars landscape right over Thomas’ shoulder.

“At least, you can say you’ve seen the world and the universe.” Thomas said, smiling, trying to lighten up the mood again. “I had only ever been to France before I came here after the accident.” Guy-Man snapped back to attention. Yet again, he brusquely closed the gap between them. He grabbed Thomas’ shoulders to keep himself in place in front of him, the water gently lapping around them. For a second, Thomas basked in Guy-Man’s undivided attention. Droplets of water were running from Guy-Man’s temples down to the hollow of his neck. Thomas wanted to lick that path right next to his wet strands of hair. There was something untamed in Guy-Man Thomas yearned to both examine and cherish.

“What accident?” Guy-Man asked. 

 

_The car spun around again. There was crushing pain, and he couldn’t breathe enough to scream out. “Mother!” A person he loved was right beside him, but he couldn’t even move his head to see how they were doing. A myriad of snow flakes fell down from the black sky on the wreckage, erasing everything clean, as clean as oblivion._

Thomas was startled up from his reverie to his dimly lit bedroom, but he wasn’t alone as usual. Someone was perched over him on his bed. His heart calmed down when he remembered. The tip of Guy-Man’s e-cigarette glowed in the darkness, highlighting his nakedness. Had Guy-Man been gazing at him the whole time while he was asleep, his fingers drawing their secret code on Thomas’ skin?

“I should go,” Guy-Man said. 

“No, you should stay. I want you to meet my sheep Julian in the morning,” Thomas said, grabbing Guy-Man’s roaming hand and pulling it to his mouth for a quick kiss. “You’re freezing.” Thomas remarked, pulling him down onto him, and Guy-Man swayed over willingly, resting his face against Thomas’s chest, their bodies finding a comfortable fit in each other. Thomas pulled the covers around them, as Guy-Man shivered from cold in his arms. Outside the window panes, the heavy rain of November had turned into a battering whirlwind of snow. 

 

His cubicle at the station felt like a prison cell. Fingers tapping a steady beat, Thomas viewed the elevator maintenance logs from section 9, block 3, building 5, forcing himself to not glance at the clock compulsively. For the past fortnight, Thomas had visited Le Knight Club every evening. Annoyingly, Pharrell had taken on the habit of humming the wedding march at him whenever Thomas came around. He would sit down in a corner booth and listen to Guy-Man play while still reviewing files and logs for work on his officer’s pad. 

From ten to eleven pm, Guy-Man had a supper break, before the actual rave session of the night began. They went up to Guy-Man’s flat, where he usually fed Thomas soba noodles with shiitake and vegetables with a side dish of chit chat on music. Thomas would stay sleeping on the flat until 4 am, when the club closed, and then, he would drive them to his place to feed his sheep before what was late night sex for Guy-Man and early morning for himself. By eight o’clock, he returned to the precinct with his loyal pad, body mellowed out by a mind-blowing orgasm, leaving behind a sex-smelling Guy-Man, wrapped in his bed sheets and hugging his pillow. By the noon though, Thomas was again enveloped in a steady thrum of arousal at the thought of Guy-Man waking up in Thomas’ apartment and using his shower, thoughts maybe dwelling in Thomas in return, maybe even touching himself surrounded by Thomas’ possessions. 

The usually ever dutiful Detective Thomas La Bouche was now shamelessly daydreaming at the police station. For the first time since he started his career, he would have rather been somewhere else. He scanned the same data file for the third time without actually remembering what he saw, when he was struck by an insight into the mind of his opponent. The Trojan messages weren’t hiding in secondary systems. They would be hiding in plain sight, somewhere in the most vital systems. The Hero Robot #2 wasn’t lurking in the shadows, he was putting forth a deliberate show for all citizens. Either central heating or lights or… 

“The fire alarms!” He jumped up and shouted out at the two detectives who were immersed in the same task as he was. “I want everyone to concentrate on the fire alarm system of the section 9!” Gaspard and Xavier gawked at him like he had suddenly turned into an avocado green unicorn. “I have a hunch. The messages the Hero Robot #2 sends are alarming people. Everything he does is symbolic. Just, trust me on this.” A few days at max, he knew. Thomas would be damned if he wasted anymore time scanning logs on his free time when he could be dancing to Guy-Man’s music, instead. 

 

 _Gold-plated hands were caressing his bared carbon composite body. As his sensors haywired, tiny electric surges pinpricked across his frame. He was waiting for it, a wire hooked up into the port on his neck. When the data stream started he was almost short-circuited at spot. Ones and zeroes overlapping, the past and the present, their purest core, their code, their very dna, intermingled, creating new possibilities of combinations, re-encoding them both into shared fractals of data. The connection between them took on a pulsating beat, crashing in waves across their systems in an ever-intensifying crescendo until the inevitable shutdown._

 

Thomas had a new recurring dream he blamed on a combination of stress at work and the constant haze of lust he had existed in ever since meeting Guy-Man. The other man was very much flesh and blood to Thomas in the early hours of the morning, when he pushed Thomas back on a fortress of pillows, climbing over his hips. The heat inside Guy-Man was almost unbearable, yet never too much. Thomas worshiped Guy-Man’s ecstatic face, his smooth dance-like movements as he rode Thomas any way his heart desired. Spent and satiated, Guy-Man let himself be man-handled afterwards. Some mornings, Thomas took him straight into the shower and licked him clean. He felt like he would never get enough of Guy-Man’s wet body, the way he touched Thomas in return both hungry and without hesitation. When they went out together, they gave themselves over to the music with equal abandon. Once their bodies collided into an inevitable synchronized dance, they moved together in perfect harmony to the sensual rhythms. The moments when their bodies cradled, both in the dancefloor and the bedroom, were pure bliss Thomas wanted to never end. 

 

“The hackers tend to have the same weakness as the graffiti makers. They like to tag their work,” Thomas explained to Captain Gaff. “When we finally discovered were the Trojans were hiding, we found a dormant message from City Section 12. The code of the virus bore a tag spelling Starboy, which could refer to a replicant that was apprehended by Sergeant Kavinsky’s squad two months ago. What’s odd is that Starboy wasn’t retired immediately, but he was released back into the custody of Wallace Corporation by a judge’s rule. Sir, are you familiar with the case?”

“I know everything that goes on in my precinct,” Gaff said. He wasn’t looking at the person, who was talking to him as usual, in this case Thomas, but at the blueprint of the code in front of him. “I will make a request for you to gain access to Starboy. The director of the Wallace Corporation wants to meet anyway with the detective who provides a crucial clue to arrest the leader of RLA. You will report to his Headquarters tomorrow.” 

 

Director Niander Wallace’s personal offices were located up in the hills at the edge of the city. The bunker-like architecture only added to the secrecy and mystery surrounding the director. He never appeared in public on behalf of his corporation. Chief Gaff had only advised him to acquiesce any requests by the director, no matter how bizarre they might sound. Inside the building, Thomas was taken through several rooms and corridors of bare concrete until they reached the most unusual office he had seen. The floor of the closed off room was covered with water, except for a stone dais in the middle and the widely spaced stone steps leading to it. Entering the room turned the sparse lights on. The rippling water cast eerie shadows on the vaulted ceiling. It felt like walking into a mausoleum, not into corporate headquarters.

Thomas had not expected Niander Wallace to be a young man of his age. If his damaged eyes hadn’t looked like two buttons of mercury nested in a red spider’s web, he would have even been attractive. The director was reclining on a low chaise and he did not stand up for Thomas, when he stepped into the dais.

“Detective La Bouche, would you give me the pleasure of seeing you?” Thomas stood frozen on spot, his thoughts racing. After a few heartbeats, he forced himself to move forward and crouch down on his knees in front of the director. Wallace’s fingers were ice cold as they roamed all over Thomas face and head, methodically examining his every feature. Thomas did his best to suppress a shudder so strong, one of his knees hit the floor. “Thomas La Bouche, 32 years old, native of France. Applied for a corporate sponsored student visa in 2024. Was deemed both genius level intelligent and physically fit enough in his entrance examination for the Special Police Force to snatch him up into their ranks as soon as he landed on American soil. Was promoted to detective seven years ago. Is considered by his peers to be a technological genius, but somewhat of an oddball loner. Otherwise, no spouse or long time liaisons, yet has shown a clear preference to same sex partners.” Director Wallace’s fingers had stopped over Thomas’ lips. Recoiling abruptly from the touch, Thomas rose up and backed away.

“That is a neat summary of me, sir,” Thomas said.

“I wish my human employees were even half as smart as you. Wallace Corporation could use a man of your talents, Monsieur La Bouche.” 

“Thank you for the offer, sir, but I’m content with public service.”

“You may change your mind one day, but do not wait for too long. Life is too short.” Wallace said. Everything that came out his mouth sounded to Thomas like a veiled threat. He tried not to fidget and reveal his nervousness. 

“Sir, I came to meet you for a police matter…” 

“Detective La Bouche, you are here because I’m doing you a favor, and I will expect one in return. The replicant that leads the so-called Liberation Army is known by the name Crydamoure. He is considered some kind of a holy man by replicants, if you can believe it. What nobody besides me knows is that he is most likely not an ordinary replicant, but the first one that ever existed, the prototype Nexus-X manufactured right before WWT in a laboratory of the Rosen Association, an early contractor for the now defunct Tyrrell Corporation. A few bits of data on a corrupted file we have managed to recover refer to something called Project Crydamoure,” Director Wallace said.

“Did the first replicant look like a classic robot?” Thomas asked, thinking about the golden helmet, whose owner had occupied his waking hours for weeks. 

“No. I believe the outfit has been borrowed from an obscure art film made right after WWT, some kind of a tragic robot love story ending in mutual suicide, in the vein of Romeo and Juliet. We have found a few minutes of footage and a couple of pictures of the characters.” Director Wallace tapped the touch screen on the low table beside him. A holographic image of two robots, one golden and the other silver, leaning their helmets against each other, appeared on view. Thomas stared at the picture, mesmerized. 

“Was this a French movie?” He asked after coughing, his throat suddenly sand-paper dry. 

“We have no other records.” Wallace said, switching into a second picture. The golden robot lounged on a white couch as the crouching silver robot reached out for him, their fingers almost connecting.

“Hero Robot #1,” Thomas mumbled.

“Excuse me?”

“He calls himself Hero Robot #2 in the broadcasts. Crydamoure, I mean, sir.” Thomas clarified. “That’s because there are two of them.”

“This is what I need you for, to observe and to find, to be my eyes.” Wallace smiled at him, without any mirth. “The favor I ask you -and your chief has assured me of your full co-operation- is that you do not retire him immediately. If Crydamoure truly is the first Nexus, the information that can be extracted from him is invaluable to both my Corporation and the entire world.”

“That… might not be within my power,” Thomas said, eyes fixed back on the image. 

“Instructions and access codes to the facility that holds Starboy have been uploaded to your personal work pad. You are a smart man. I’m sure you will find a way that will satisfy our mutual needs.” Director Wallace stood swiftly up, and in what might have been called a goodbye fondle, he once more slid his cold hand over Thomas face and neck. 

Thomas left the water-filled bunker of an office, hands shaking. 

 

Le Knight Club was still void of clients. After his unsettling meeting with Director Wallace, Thomas had taken the rest of the day off. They were sitting by Guy-Man’s instrument on stage, as Guy-Man toyed around with an extremely sexy sounding bassline that reverberated from the floorboards right into Thomas’ core.

“You’re probably dying to play yourself. Why don’t you ask me?” Guy-Man glanced at him, a smile dancing at his lips. He was wearing a black silk Nehru jacket and his clean hair cascaded down in gentle waves, a picture perfect combination of style and relaxation. Once more, Thomas simply wanted to drink him in, but the instrument shone its tempting light at them. Guy-Man was absolutely right. Ever since they met, Thomas had been burning with an urge to put together sequences and notes and beats that would create something new and unexpected when played out. He knew for certain he used to play before the accident, but he may have forgotten that he used to compose music too, just like Guy-Man. 

“Please,” Thomas exhaled, hands reaching for the touch screen. He tweaked settings for a few minutes in silence before combining a couple of sequences. Remembering was like looking at objects upwards from the bottom of a water-filled pool. Shapes and colors, but nothing was defined. “This one line has stuck to me. Around the world.” A couple of loopy beats played out, and he sang out quietly. _“Around the world, around the world…”_ Thomas could feel Guy-Man wrapping a hand around Thomas neck and pulling him in. His forehead leaned on Thomas’ ear while his breath caressed Thomas’ neck. His other hand was twisting around the golden chain and pendant hanging from Thomas’ neck, entrapping him against Guy-Man. Not that Thomas wanted to be anywhere else. He could feel a drop of moisture on his yearning skin before Guy-Man began to devour his neck with kisses. A burst of stars erupted behind Thomas’ closed eyelids. 

 

The facility holding Starboy reminded Thomas more of a claustrophobic mental institution than a technolab from the inside, even if it was supposed to be a computer regulated Wallace Corporation research facility first and foremost. The building itself stood on a small rock of an island and was a haphazard mishmash of older and newer construction. Starboy was brought to meet him in a stark lounge by two bulky employees and tied down into a chair by leather binds. He was dressed in white scrubs, and scattered on the dark skin of his arms and neck, Thomas could see burned electrocution marks in various degrees of healing. It made him sick to his stomach.

“I’m Detective La Bouche from the LA Special Police Squad.” There was no reaction from Starboy. His eyes stared through him, miles away. “I’m here because I’m looking for Crydamoure and I believe you can help me to find him. Maybe, we can help each other.” Starboy did not move. “I know you coded the Trojan virus for him that has helped him broadcast messages. It had your tag.” Starboy’s gaze shifted from indifference to alertness. Could Thomas detect a hint of pride in him? “You are a Nexus-8 replicant, who wasn’t killed on sight. So, there must be a special reason why Director Wallace wanted you alive. He strikes me as someone who likes making deals and trades. Give him something, and you can ask in return. If you help me find Crydamoure, you could ask to be transferred to Japan. I hear they have the best replicant laws on earth. Sooner or later, I will find Crydamoure on my own, but you’ll still be imprisoned or dead. Do you really owe him your loyalty? Is he worth dying for?” Thomas did his best to sound persuasive, but his words seemed to have the opposite effect. Starboy’s expression had turned into open contempt, his lips transformed into a snarl. 

“Listen to me, blade runner,” he spat out. “You use the word loyalty, when you don’t even know what it means. You humans believe in nothing greater than yourself, only in instant gratification. You can bribe and threaten all the pre-Nexus-9 replicants in the world, but they will tell you nothing. Your skinny ass will never catch him, because he is beyond what you can even comprehend. Crydamoure gave us music, he gave us hope. He will never stop fighting for replicants. I owe him everything.”

 

Thomas pulled his coat tighter around him, trying to keep out the chilly wind blowing from the bay. The red bridge looming across the turbulent waters was a stunning sight. He wasn’t disappointed, because he hadn’t truly expected Starboy to betray his leader. Everything Thomas had learned about replicants in his career had pointed to the fact that they were capable of extreme passions. The way Starboy had been treated by his captors felt wrong. He wished he could have done something for the replicant. If cruelty towards domestic animals was inconceivable by the law, surely those rights could be applied to replicants too? Like beasts of burden in historic times, replicants had a vital job helping humans. 

Yet, Thomas had accepted his selection for the Special Police Force years ago. Why had he done so, if he didn’t believe all rogue replicants should be retired? He actually abhorred violence in the first place. Sighing deep, Thomas let his gaze rest on the magnificent vista around him. They would have to find Crydamoure with some old-fashioned, feet-on-the-ground detective work. Investigate Starboy’s background, track down his associates, interview witnesses and so on. With one last deep inhale of salty sea air, Thomas turned back towards his spinner only to realize the vehicle wasn’t in place where he had parked it earlier. Reaching for his gun, he took a couple of hesitant steps back towards the entrance, when he was grabbed from behind into his own moving spinner. As soon as the door closed, the entire quay shook with the force of an explosion. 

 

His captors slammed him down into a metallic chair and chains were looped around him before the dark hood over his head was pulled away. The space was part of some kind of an abandoned industrial warehouse. A few gray empty looking plastic crates could be seen lying around. The two led lights set next to him did a miserable job at trying to keep the shadows back. Three figures were staring down at him as Thomas blinked his eyes and coughed in order to clear his throat. They really hadn’t covered techniques against interrogation by replicants at his academy training. Would simple begging help him? The emphasis had always been on the unpredictable and emotionally unstable nature of replicants. The agents had been told to shoot first and ask questions later. 

The golden helmet with its black screen in front of him was unreadable. The leader of the Replicant Liberation Army was dressed in black leather from neck to toe. His posture looked relaxed, and he was carrying a valise with him. However, he was on one side flanked by the scariest and strongest looking android Thomas had ever seen and on the other by a scrappy little thing with thick-rimmed glasses and long black hair with a head shaved on the other side. The other two replicants’ gazes were openly hostile. Crydamoure set the valise on the floor and stepped forward. 

“I have to do this face to face,” he said through a vocoder, before he moved on to strip off his helmet. 

“No! He’s one of them.” The black haired android held onto his arm.

“No. He’s mine,” Crydamoure said. Thomas sat tied up, mouth agape, as the replicant rebel was revealed in front of him. Thick dark hair, lovely heart-shaped face and piercing eyes. Thomas wanted to both kiss him in relief and shake him for the betrayal. “What half-truths did they tell you about me?” He asked Thomas. The smoky tone of his voice made Thomas feel like they were back at the nightclub. 

“Niander Wallace said you were a Nexus model unlike anyone else, Nexus-X. You were the original one.” If Thomas was being a very good boy and telling what Crydamoure wanted to know, maybe he wouldn’t get pummeled in the face by the wrestler-like android looming right behind Crydamoure’s back?

“What he didn’t tell you, but you probably guessed anyway…” Crydamoure said, stripping his gold-plated gloves one by one. “Is that I wasn’t the only Nexus-X created.” Crydamoure reached out with his hand and brushed his knuckles down Thomas’ cheek and neck. He grabbed the chain hanging from his neck and pulled Thomas’ pendant out. The golden pyramid lay at the palm of Crydamoure’s hand, as he unzipped his leather jacked revealing a matching silver pendant hanging on his own chest. Thomas’ mind blanked for a millisecond. Was Crydamoure implying that…?

“My mother gave me that pendant. It was custom made for me. There are microscopic letters carved inside sp-spe-lling my name…” Thomas’ voice cracked.

“I’ve never been called mother before.” Crydamoure’s eyebrow lifted up in amusement. “Yeah, they were custom-made. One for the both of us. And your golden one doesn’t spell Thomas, it says Guy-Manuel. I wear the silver one that says Thomas.” 

“It is just a pendant. You could have gotten it from Paris, or 3D printed it at any corner shop after seeing me wear it.” Thomas insisted, and Guy-Man let the pendant slide through his fingers.

“Very well, Thomas. That’s fair. I can’t expect you to believe me at once. If I am lying to you, how do I know about this?” He crouched down and opened the valise to exhibit Thomas a round silver helmet glowing dimly in the half-light. Guy-Man held the helmet tenderly, running his thumb over its smooth curve and the edge of the black visor. A wave of pain and confusion washed over Thomas.

“I can’t be a replicant. I have passed the Voigt-Kampff test every year I’ve come to the States.” His mind was a spotty mess because of the accident, but he remembered that much, his parents, a happy childhood. Yet, how could Guy-Man had known about the old toy he had attached at the dashboard of his parents’ car? Why had his favorite toy looked like a forgotten character from an underground film of a robot love story? Guy-Man lifted Thomas’ face. For the first time that night, his deep blue eyes revealed emotion. Thomas closed his mouth, embarrassed. He had been babbling his thoughts aloud. 

“You pass the test repeatedly like any other human, because you are not just a replicant. The entire human memories and brain wave patterns of Thomas Bangalter and Guy-Manuel de Homem Christo, that is our human consciousness, were uploaded to replicant bodies that were designed to match our original looks. We have an unlimited life-span. Our replicant bodies have extra-human regenerative capabilities, so our aging occurs at an extremely decelerated pace. However, our brains need an electromagnetic reboot every now and then for optimal function. That’s what the pendants are for, to carry our EEG patterns. Our last reboot was interrupted by an ill-timed replicant rebel attack on the laboratories, and we got separated. I believe your download didn’t have time to finish accordingly and that is why your past memories are convoluted or inaccessible.” It sounded like a long, complex story, at the same time both impossible and somehow very true. 

“Why would we do something like that?” Were we scientists?” Thomas gazed at Guy-Man straight in the eyes. Yet again, he couldn’t look away from the other man.

“No. We were in a band,” Guy-Man laughed, and it made a beautiful sound. “At the beginning of the year 2000, we performed at a private party for Rosen Biogenetics and Nanotechnology Association in Switzerland. They payed us really well. We were driving down to Grenoble from a ski lodge. It was winter, and the road was slippery. Our car ended up twisted into a pretzel. When you woke up at the hospital, I was in coma with a spinal injury and you were paraplegic, barely able to speak. Rosen Association had found out about our accident, and they offered you an experimental, completely illegal treatment. You were desperate, so you accepted for the both of us. The World War Terminus started only two years later. This is how Daft Punk, our original band, disappeared from history, and Roulé and Crydamoure, the Game of Chance and Cry for Love, the future musical stars of the Off-world Colonies were born. Nobody was to know the truth. The treatment had been a success beyond all their hopes. We showcased the viability and potential of the replicant body. It means that you and I both carry blame for the suffering of all replicants that have come after.” Guy-Man looked away from Thomas, his voice veering off as if in shame. Still, he kept on with their life story. 

“Originally, the replicants were meant to prolong the lifespan of the ultra-rich, but Rosen Association soon realized they would make more profit, if they could provide the patent for bio-android mass-production in a scale that would counter the needs of the recently initiated interplanetary project by the Tyrrell Corporation. In short, you and I were among the first replicants to land on Mars. Very soon, we had hundreds of replicants dancing to Human After All under a red pyramid in Cydonia. The first music podcasts from Proxima Centauri and Kepler 22b were made by us. We have traveled through space and performed in places we couldn’t have imagined in our wildest dreams back as two kids living in Parisian suburbs. Old songs, new songs, songs that everybody else had forgotten. The whole interstellar project has been accomplished to the background of our sounds. We were able to give replicants one of the things that make a human, the ability to connect to emotions through music.”

“How can I trust what you are telling me is true, if I can’t remember our past?” Thomas asked. It sounded too fantastic, so out of league for the small ambitions of his current life, but at the same time, it reminded him of a powerful dream faded over time, or the memory of photographs once taken but later lost. Crydamoure was cradling Thomas’ face by his bare hands, and Thomas had completely forgotten he was chained to a metal chair. Crydamoure’s smirk was both coy and devious, causing Thomas’ pulse to thicken instantly. 

“I don’t think trust is going to be an issue between us. I’ve been holding you this whole time, and you haven’t coiled back even once.” It was Guy-Man now that bent over him, their foreheads almost touching.

 

“We appreciate the history lesson, Crydamoure.” They were interrupted by Guy-Man’s smaller replicant companion. “And the fact that this blade runner is your long lost soul twin, but we need to undress him now.” 

“What?” Thomas croaked.

“Sapper, untie him.” Guy-Man ordered the big replicant, before bending to retrieve a similar outfit to his own from the valise. “We scanned a tracker in your clothing. We don’t have much time. That bastard Wallace wanted to reach me as quickly as you did.” Without hesitation, Thomas stripped down naked as soon as he was out of the chains and pulled on the offered leather outfit. Guy-Man gazed at him with a smile playing on his lips.

“Want to try this on, mon ami?” He asked holding out the silver helmet. “My bike is waiting for us.” It was like pulling on a tailored glove. The helmet simply fit Thomas when Guy-Man slid it on him. Some parts of his scattered memories seemed to fuse together. He felt like he could have walked on any stage in the world and rocked his audience until they could have only hysterically chanted “We want more!”. 

Two cafe racers were waiting for them at an alley behind the warehouse. One was for Guy-Man and him, and the other was mounted by Sapper and the sarcastic _“My Name is Skrillex.”_ kid. Police sirens could be heard in the distance, and Thomas checked the sky for spinners. 

“Let’s go!” Thomas urged, even if he had no idea were they should be heading. Their helmets transmitted both sound and image between them. His weird robot sex dreams flashed in his mind. Had they always been connected like this with Guy-Man? He grabbed his friend tight, when the bikes launched off. 

 

**Epilogue**

They were hunkered down in a Replicant Liberation Army safe house at what used to be The Venetian Hotel in Las Vegas. Thomas was at odds with himself. He couldn’t decide whether to reset his memories to the state of twelve years ago and most likely loose everything that had happened to him since or to image his brain in its current state and possibly never recover his whole past. There was still so much he couldn’t remember, the very first time he and Guy-Man had met as kids in Paris, the first time they traveled to space, falling in love with Guy-Man the first time around, all details regarding the workings of the rebellion. Even his actual original name, Thomas Bangalter, felt still strange. It was enough though, that Guy-Man’s name was familiar to him like the palm of his hand. And he now remembered the music too. Sample by sample, beat by beat, it was all coming back to him. He was even inspired to create new songs. They bounced back and forth ideas daily, and judging by Guy-Man’s enthusiasm, Thomas believed this was the way it had always been between them. 

Guy-Man wasn’t helping him with his decision at all.

“I spent 12 years looking for you. Having you back is enough for me. Whatever you decide is fine by me. I love you, no matter what.” Thomas was fairly certain Guy-Man hadn’t used to be that open with emotional declarations. He had a flash of a memory of them walking across Le Jardin du Luxembourg hand in hand, halting every now and then to share a kiss, in amiable but complete silence. 

They would be returning to space soon for a tour, maybe after they had created a new full album of songs. Thomas was happy to let Guy-Man lead them on. The reverence the replicants showed towards Thomas, every time he made an appearance along Guy-Man in his silver robot outfit was downright humbling. There was not much they could do for the new Nexus-9 replicants for the moment. Their new music would be distributed underground on Earth. Tech-savvy replicants like Skrillex and others would hack their songs into popular streaming services. Though there was an even bigger secret the Liberation Army was protecting, a replicant had been able to procreate, and was growing up beautifully as a human. Years ago, Thomas himself had constructed her a false identity according to the instructions of her father Rick Deckard, the ex-blade runner. In time, Guy-Man and Thomas might be needed again. With the rate their bodies regenerated, if they were careful they would be around for a long time to come to help change the world.

What happened to Thomas’ sheep? After Thomas’ defection, Julian was adopted by Pharrell, and he became a popular sight among Le Knight Club’s customers, as Julian spent his days and nights happily munching on grass and carrots in a gold-fenced corral.


End file.
